


Take It To The Limit

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Blood, Consensual Sex, Flirting, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Public Display of Affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deathsaurus knew better.  Tarn ought to know better.  Somehow a juvenile prank and a soundly-deserved dressing-down turn into something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always Been A Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> Consensual sex with the following caveats: two notably aggressive and dangerous individuals who still haven't figured out the power dynamics between them. 
> 
> Everything is consensual but there are: thoughts about consent issues, things happening during sex that characters aren't prepared for, someone pressing sexual overtures despite ambiguous feedback, and a chapter (warnings on chapter) where a character does something because he feels he ought to/needs to even though he doesn't particularly want to, and poor communication.
> 
> Basically, one of the interesting things about this relationship is the two of them trying to sort out the power dynamics beyond their professional relationship, and as they do so, there's mistakes, misunderstandings and potential threats. 
> 
> Also, mention of character death in a dream setting.
> 
> Story title and chapter titles taken from the Eagles song "Take It To The Limit."

Chapter One: Always Been A Dreamer  
  


Deathsaurus dreamed of Tarn.

Always the dream began the same. He stood on one side of his Warworld’s primary hangar. Tarn was a shadowed figure in the dim illumination of the emergency lighting. The recessed lamp above Tarn’s head illumined his mask in a splash of brilliant purple. Tarn’s optics glowed like twin smelters through the dark eyeholes of the mask. His biolights flickered a sinister magenta—the colour of freshly spilled energon.

Deathsaurus clutched…at first it had been his weapons. His cannon and his scimitar. More recently—ever since he’d actually formulated a _plan_ he could implement if he had advance warning that the DJD were coming—it had been a box of explosives. Sometimes, in his dream, the plan worked. He shoved the box into Tarn’s arms and detonated the explosives. Other times Tarn refused to take the box and Deathsaurus found himself wishing for his morningstar flail.

This was the first time, though, when Deathsaurus’s hands had been empty.

He had _nothing_ , but he was not defenseless—far from it—so he charged at Tarn, ready to rip the other Decepticon apart with beak and talons if he had to. He needed to buy his crew a chance to escape with their lives.

Because that had always been the agreement. Deathsaurus had said as much when he first announced his intention to go rogue: _Megatron has ordered us to our deaths time and time again, and this time we are tasked for a mission we are not intended to survive. He spends our lives like shanix—no, not like shanix but like tokens on the Monacus wheel. He does not spend us wisely, like currency. He spends us cheaply, like trifles. He does not care if he loses us for little or no return._

_So if we are to die, let us die with the right to spend our own lives on the causes we feel are worth dying for. Let us live as we wish for the time that we have; let us die for our Cause and for one another and for ourselves. Let us live before we die, and let us die knowing we have soundly earned the end that has come to us._

_On the morrow I take this Warworld, not to the position which Megatron has commanded, but to the Rim where we may decide our own destiny, as true Decepticons, deceived by none, enslaved by no master, not even those masters who wear our own badge._

_If you do not wish to come with me, then you are free to leave, and your lives will remain Megatron’s. But if you come with me, your lives are your own, and I will fight for you as you fight for me, until our time runs out._

He had walked onto the Warworld’s bridge knowing that he might leave the Decepticon Empire by himself. He had been shocked that over five hundred troops – some not even his own warriors – had chosen to leave with him. He had been honoured by the trust his people had placed in him. Over the centuries since his split with Megatron, he had kept their faith.

Deathsaurus had never been under any illusions that Megatron might not send the DJD after him, or that they might not find him. He had lived his life from that moment onward knowing that someday Tarn and the rest of his pack of killers would track him down and do their level best to execute him. He had dreamed of Tarn often, once a month at least.

From the beginning, he had known the end.

And now, now that the end was upon him, Deathsaurus had every intention of going down fighting. Without his plan, without his weapons, he balled his fists and spread his wings and prepared to stall Tarn until his warriors got away.

It would not be the first time Deathsaurus had fought for his life with empty hands.

Tarn sprinted to meet him. Though Tarn had his double barrelled fusion cannon mounted on his arm, he did not raise it, did not use it. Tarn carried no weapons in his hands.

Tarn crashed into Deathsaurus, or Deathsaurus crashed into him. Deathsaurus was almost certain it was Tarn who clutched his shoulders first, Tarn who bent his knees and dropped to the ground and dragged Deathsaurus down with him. It was Tarn who rolled until he was on top of Deathsaurus, pinning him, one hand on Deathsaurus’s chest, the other on his neck. 

Deathsaurus prepared to change shape—see how well Tarn could restrain an angry beast, particularly when his robot head was so close to where his powerful hind limbs were located in his animal form—but Tarn’s next attack caught him off guard.

Because Tarn used his voice, whispering in Deathsaurus’s audio.

Deathsaurus had advance warning of _weaponized conversation_ , and he knew enough to turn off his hearing receptors, except that _what_ Tarn said made Deathsaurus want to hear _more_.

“Do you know the _pleasure_ of serving a worthy Cause?” Tarn whispered.

Deathsaurus hesitated, and it was his undoing.

“Let me _show_ you,” Tarn said, and then he was reaching for Deathsaurus’s valve panel, and opening it, and running his finger around the rim of Deathsaurus’s valve. Deathsaurus lay frozen, utterly shocked. His breath rasped in his intakes, his mind screamed warnings and his body waited in morbid fascination to see what might happen as Tarn slid a single finger into Deathsaurus’s valve and then whispered a single word in a voice laced with enough power to send his frame into cascading overload: “ _See_?”

His _valve_ , Tarn was playing with his _valve_ , as though Deathsaurus were the captain and Tarn the subordinate, and yet despite receiving the valve-play that was a dominant mech’s due, Deathsaurus felt his will crumbling in the face of Tarn’s sweet poison. Tarn rubbed Deathsaurus’s anterior node with a finger moistened by Deathsaurus’s own lubricants and Deathsaurus knew in that moment he was lost, that he would follow Tarn anywhere.

“May I…” Deathsaurus’s voice cracked. “May I serve _you_?”

And then Deathsaurus was on top, his spike extended and willing, and Tarn was leaning back with his panel open, displaying a valve laced by something Deathsaurus had never seen before. Tarn had truly taken torture to the level of art. Deathsaurus was appalled by the notion of piercing one’s valve lips, particularly the anterior node itself, yet he couldn’t stop staring at the series of nine rings or the little silver chain that linked them. A chain just wide enough to allow his spike easy passage through its loop.

Deathsaurus couldn’t see Tarn’s face—it was hidden behind the symbol of the Cause that was his mask—but he could hear the smile in Tarn’s voice.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Tarn said.

*

Deathsaurus sat bolt upright in his berth, his heating coils smouldering, trying to ward away the chill of the nightmare. He wrapped his wings around himself. His talons dug into his palms; the pain was grounding. 

_Breathe deeply._

_Just the nightmare._

Except…

What in the Pit was _wrong_ with him? When had his nightmare turned into something sexual? Why was he having sex dreams about _Tarn_ of all people? That was just _sick_. 

What kind of pervert would dream about being fucked by a mech who was coming to kill him and all the people he cared about? Worse, what kind of pervert would dream about that and _like_ it? Almost…almost _want_ it?

Because his spike was rock hard and aching behind his panel and he was pretty sure his valve had dripped all over his berth. The evidence was damning; his own body had betrayed him.

_Just a dream. Doesn’t mean anything. The DJD are far away, and…_

Deathsaurus’s frame tensed.

Another thought occurred to him. He distinctly remembered actually handing Tarn that box of explosives. His plan had worked, to a degree, but not well enough. Tarn had still been alive and fighting even after Deathsaurus had detonated the explosives, and then he’d used the power of his voice. Even then Deathsaurus might have taken him had he not anticipated Deathsaurus turning off his audio receptors—anticipated and developed a counter-strategy. Tarn had ordered his team to hack Deathsaurus’s communication links.

Lyzack was _not_ going to be happy about that. Some poor Cons were going to have all hell to pay for not securing the frequencies well enough.

But…

If Tarn had _won_ the fight, why was Deathsaurus _here_ , sleeping in his own berth, apparently undamaged? By all rights he ought to be dead, and his crew with him.

Another dream?

Deathsaurus sat on the edge of his berth, rubbing his optics. The images in his mind were sharp and clear, like memories, but their content made no sense given how he was alive and well.

Hah, unless he and Tarn had decided to frag out their differences instead of fight….

_Smelt. Me. Down._

Because _that_ thought had summoned up a whole _new_ series of images, involving himself and Tarn sealing an alliance in the traditional Rim fashion. And _those_ thoughts started his damn dirty valve dripping again and his poor hard-used spike to aching, and the very fact that both sets of his equipment felt as though they had already gotten a good working out suggested to him that he might indeed be recalling actual events and not dreams.

He picked up the datapad on his desk and checked his schedule.

First thing in the morning.

JOINT DJD/WARWORLD OFFICER STAFF MEETING

Development and implementation of new command structure and protocol

Deathsaurus’s jaw dropped.

He’d done it. He’d interfaced one of the DJD and instead of dying he’d somehow ended up _allied_ to them.

And he’d fragged Tarn.

And he’d liked it.

And if he put any truck at all in dream analysis—and he wanted to say he didn’t—but, hypothetically speaking, his subconscious might be trying to tell him that maybe, just _maybe_ , he might want to do it _again_.


	2. So Hard to Change

Chapter Two: So Hard To Change

Deathsaurus knew better.

That might’ve been why the rogue Decepticon commander was shocked at his own behaviour, even as he _persisted_ in it. This kind of questionable conduct wasn’t like him. Attention-seeking antics were unbecoming enough in his _crew_ , let alone of a Decepticon _warlord_. When the situation was reversed, Deathsaurus did not tolerate inattentiveness while he was giving a briefing. 

He _certainly_ didn’t tolerate flirtatious shenanigans.

So why was he spending the joint DJD/Warworld Officer Staff Meeting acting like a poorly behaved recruit?

Maybe it was just that he wasn’t accustomed to sitting in the audience section of the briefing room, even if he _did_ have a seat up front with the other officers. Typically he either had the podium himself or else he sat off to the right in the commander’s chair, supervising both the speaker and the audience. But the chain of command aboard the Warworld had gone through a radical restructuring in the last forty-eight hours.

Tarn wanted to be certain that both his team and Deathsaurus’s officer staff were clear on all aspects of their mission: their objectives, methods, available equipment, priorities, and protocol. This command meeting was intended to clarify those points before instructing the rest of the _Thunder Arrow_ ’s crew.

Deathsaurus had already said his piece, right after Tarn. Deathsaurus had paid careful attention while Kaon described the strengths of the DJD—they were _not_ a transplantable officer corps that could be set on top of the existing hierarchy. They were a special forces unit that functioned best in isolation—and how they would fit into Deathsaurus’s command structure. A certain degree of integration was necessary now that Tarn was Emperor in fact if not in name.

At the present time, though, Drillhorn was lecturing on standard Warworld attack procedure and Deathsaurus was bored out of his skull. He’d developed this protocol. Used it thousands of times since, refining it and perfecting it. 

Deathsaurus could understand how the DJD would need to know how his troops operated during an offensive engagement, but he didn’t know why he had to be here listening to it instead of out with his people. The anterior port star drive was malfunctioning again and the engineering department had finally gotten a replacement laser core online. He ought to be down there helping with the installation, doing real mech’s work, not up here sitting on his aft like some decadent senator back on Cybertron. But this wasn’t entirely his ship any more, and he could no longer do as he pleased.

So Deathsaurus persisted in behaviour not entirely becoming of a commander. He shifted his left foot until it brushed, ever so slightly, against the foot of the mech sitting next to him. It was the kind of honest mistake that could easily happen when a mech who’d been sitting in a chair for a long time decided to stretch his leg and accidentally made contact under the table with someone whose position he couldn’t see.

Except that the person next to him was Tarn and Deathsaurus had been shifting his foot for the better part of five minutes, stretching over further and further until he’d finally come right up against the tank’s right leg.

Deathsaurus kept his primary optics focused on Drillhorn, but the gaze of his secondary optics darted sideways to sneak a peek at Tarn. Tarn’s expression remained unchanged. Either he was so engrossed by Drillhorn’s speech that his situational awareness was seriously diminished, or he didn’t think the touch worthy of a reaction.

Deathsaurus felt oddly disappointed.

He should be smug that he’d gotten away with touching Tarn under the table. Hadn’t he always amused himself by _acquiring_ things from other Decepticon units too foolish to properly safeguard their belongings—or too pathetic to stop him? Deathsaurus prided himself on being clever and daring. Tarn’s lack of response was a letdown. 

Deathsaurus realized he wanted Tarn’s recognition. He wanted Tarn to pay attention to him. 

Tarn certainly had paid attention yesterday morning.

Thinking of _that_ brought a smug smile to Deathsaurus’s lips. Tarn had been surprisingly fatigued after his arrival on the Warworld, though not nearly enough to stop him from defeating Deathsaurus, handily. Though on one level hacking the comm system was cheating, on another Deathsaurus grudgingly admitted respect for the cunning subterfuge Tarn had displayed. Deathsaurus would never have thought so highly of a leader who’d simply battered him into submission.

Tarn’s fatigue hadn’t showed itself until their private strategy meeting in Tarn’s quarters when the DJD commander had almost fallen asleep in his chair before they could seal their alliance in the customary way. Deathsaurus, impressed by Tarn and his offer, had chosen an honourable course of action. He’d seen Tarn to berth and slept beside him, waiting for the morning to consummate the agreement.

And what a consummation it had been.

It would’ve been within Tarn’s rights to throw his rank around, put Deathsaurus in his place and keep him there. Instead, Tarn’s fascinating voice had been used to a very different effect. Deathsaurus was dizzy with pleasure before he’d ever gotten his spike anywhere near Deathsaurus’s valve. He’d expected being used for stud to feel degrading and instead it had been frankly one of the best frags of his life.

And then Tarn had _rewarded_ him. Stooping to use his spike to favour a subordinate…

Deathsaurus studied Tarn out of his secondary optics and growled under his breath. Tarn’s expression was almost wholly hidden by that damned mask of his. Even when they were jacked in to one another, Deathsaurus had been hard-pressed to decipher how Tarn was feeling. From the looks of it, Tarn was quite content to go about his business now that the alliance had been consummated.

And the longer this hellish limbo of a meeting stretched on, the more Deathsaurus realized that he was _not_. 

The featherlike structures on the back of his neck stiffened as Deathsaurus turned the revelation over in his mind. What he’d done with Tarn had been a frag and a promise, like so many before—all right, perhaps one of few where he’d been the secondary partner, but _still_ , the principle ought to hold…

Except that he couldn’t get Tarn out of his thoughts. Reluctantly, Deathsaurus admitted that the DJD commander had impressed him. Still intrigued him. And he reminded himself that he could _not_ allow the fact that Tarn was great fun in the berth to colour his impressions of the mech’s performance from here on out. If Tarn didn’t take care of his people, Deathsaurus would deal with the problem. No matter how attractive Tarn’s valve was.

Deathsaurus spent the next ten minutes thinking about Tarn’s valve—its tightness, its taste, and its singular piercings, including the lock he’d had to bite off to access it—and another ten minutes denying to himself that he was so fascinated by anyone’s interface equipment, let alone his erstwhile Emperor’s. Deathsaurus was not the kind of mech who readily bowed to another.

And yet…

He snuck another glance at Tarn, this time with his primary optics.

Tarn appeared completely oblivious.

It irritated Deathsaurus to no end. If he couldn’t stop thinking about Tarn, he’d make damned sure Tarn was also thinking about _him_.

He stretched out his wings and furled them, knowing his left wingtip was going to slide underneath Tarn’s chair and…yes, _there_. Deathsaurus felt something firm against his wing. Tarn’s knee, perhaps?

He didn’t turn his head, but he heard the creak of the chair next to him as Tarn stiffened.

Deathsaurus was pretty sure he managed to keep a smarmy grin off his face. He was less sure that his satisfaction didn’t show in his optics.

Tarn couldn’t _possibly_ have been fragging his way through the Decepticon Army with that lock on his valve. That lock had been symbolic, and Deathsaurus was pretty sure who access had been reserved for: a certain Emperor no longer worthy of the title. It was odd, thinking of Megatron using his spike. These old-society Cybertronians really were a kinky bunch.

That aside, Deathsaurus had thought he’d given a command performance yesterday morning, but Tarn had said nothing about it to him since. 

Deathsaurus did not take kindly to being overlooked.

Maybe it was the entitlement borne of centuries of being law on his own Warworld, and maybe he didn’t know his place, but Deathsaurus felt that he deserved a little more recognition and if Tarn wasn’t about to give it, then he was damned well going to _take_ it. He hadn’t kept his crew alive as long as he had by politely waiting his turn.

So, seeing no response to his opening salvo, Deathsaurus did exactly what he would have done on the battlefield. He steeled his nerves…and pressed his attack.


	3. If It All Fell To Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Esmeral.
> 
> From the Victory manga, Deathsaurus's wife.
> 
> Even though she didn't appear in the Victory TV show, I didn't feel good about "ignoring the female character to ship Deathsaurus with Tarn." I felt even worse at the thought of "make Esmeral a horrible, unlovable person to justify Deathsaurus breaking up with her so I can ship her with Tarn." Fortunately, I found a solution. What is "marriage" on the Rim? There'll be a longer explanation in future fics, but for the time being, suffice it to say, both of them consider their marriage a political alliance that has nothing to do with romance, sex, or attraction. Though, explaining that to Tarn might get interesting...
> 
> Really, Tarn, Leozack is going to be a larger problem than Esmeral....
> 
> Anyway, on with the show...

Chapter Three: If It All Fell To Pieces

Deathsaurus slid his arm under the table and reached out to his left, resting his taloned hand on Tarn’s upper leg. He curled his fingers, running his talons ever so lightly over the satiny wax on Tarn’s thigh.

_That_ intrusion proved a little too much for Tarn to ignore. The DJD commander coughed to get Deathsaurus’s attention and then tilted his head, glaring at Deathsaurus as though to say _are you aware you’re invading my personal space?_

“Oh,” Deathsaurus said as he pulled his arm away, “I’m _sorry_.” 

Which was a lie, but the real problem was that he couldn’t even _sound_ sincere, and he really _did_ know better than to provoke Tarn on purpose. He’d been on the opposite end of Leozack’s shenanigans often enough to know that sooner or later Tarn was going to…

… _what?_

When it was _him_ dealing with a subordinate who didn’t respect his authority, he waited for the first available opportunity to get Leozack alone and…well, after their relationship had soured—once the baiting had become _malicious_ —Deathsaurus would growl the consequences into Leozack’s audio. He had stopped yelling at his Air Commander in public once he realized that Leozack thrived on the attention and the ability to play _champion of the enlisted ranks, standing up to the tyranny of command—one of_ you _, the one who should be your new leader_. No. He would not play into the myth Leozack wanted to construct. He punished Leozack in private and let the restrictions on his Air Commander’s liberties tell the rest of his crew what happened to those who overstepped their bounds.

It was working in that he’d not had a mutiny. 

It was not working in that Leozack persisted in pressing his buttons.

And Deathsaurus realized he was making a potentially dangerous assumption in presuming Tarn would react to provocation the same way he did. Tarn might haul off and slap him across the face, right in front of everybody—and how would that look to his officers?

_Or it could be worse_.

Tarn might use that voice of his. Deathsaurus imagined himself curled up into a ball on the floor, writhing around and mewing in pain, while Tarn sang his fatal melody and the other DJD held Deathsaurus’s officers back from going to his rescue. Looking weak to his officers was bad, but the way it would _hurt_ them to watch him tortured and be unable to help…

Deathsaurus gasped. Almost put both hands on the tabletop with a vow to behave. Because what if Tarn _didn’t_ punish _him_?

What if his punishment was to watch, in perfect safety, while Tarn sang Guyhawk, or Killbison, or Jalguar to agony….or to death?

_Tarn wouldn’t do that. It would be a violation of our alliance._

The alliance they’d sealed very enthusiastically the night before.

Deathsaurus felt a little twinge in his valve which reminded him that despite Tarn’s fearsome reputation, the mech was no monster. He was the kind of leader who, having received good service, was willing to be generous in turn. Tarn, under no obligation to take the submissive’s role as stud, had nevertheless done so in appreciation for Deathsaurus’s cooperation.

Deathsaurus had to believe that Tarn wouldn’t hurt his crew now that he’d pronounced them all exonerated. 

Maybe, Deathsaurus thought as he reached out under the table with his hand again, it was just as well if he figured out now whether Tarn was the sort of person to berate him in public or pull him aside for a quiet word in private. If Tarn was the kind of mech who preferred corporal punishment or the sort of carefully considered consequence that made a mech regret his indiscretions. If Tarn would fly off the handle at the slightest provocation or if he would ignore a problem until it was on the verge of exploding in his face. It was useful knowledge, Deathsaurus told himself, and knowledge could be translated into power. 

If he disagreed with his new Emperor’s policies, he’d be better able to decide when to speak up and when to keep his mouth shut if he knew how Tarn was likely to react to disobedience. What had Trannis written in _The Fog of War_? _Know thy adversary._

Except Deathsaurus was suddenly having a lot of trouble thinking of Tarn as an adversary. He’d much rather think about yesterday morning. Or his dreams from this morning. This alliance was supposed to be a partnership.

He recognized, just as his talons brushed over Tarn’s thigh again, that he actually didn’t want useful knowledge about how far he could push the DJD commander, or what kind of punishment Tarn preferred. What he actually wanted was a repeat of yesterday morning.

Which was an outrageous thing to be thinking about a _formal alliance_. They weren’t blowing off steam or celebrating a victory; they weren’t friends with upgrades. They _definitely_ weren’t courting. Deathsaurus didn’t _do_ courtship. He’d tried it once when he was young and stupid and the entire Warworld knew how _that_ had turned out. He wouldn’t be making _that_ mistake again.

He did have a… _wife_ , her homeworld called it, which to his mind was both different entirely from _conjunx endura_. The position was entirely ceremonial as far as the two of them were concerned. Away from her homeworld, they had little cause to stand on the obscure nuances of an alien legal system. Esmeral was an effective Home Defense Warden and he respected her skill. They had a good working relationship; neither of them had seen any need to pollute it with presumed obligations. Instead of bowing to external pressures, they had redefined their status among her homeworld’s culture to suit themselves and proceeded with their lives. It was a formality that got them both out of a bad situation and into a better one.

So. There was nothing preventing Deathsaurus from doing as he pleased in his intimate life, which was sharing interface with a number of willing, enthusiastic subordinates who wanted the same from him. Fun, bonding, stress relief, appreciation. Reassuring and rewarding his comrades. Permitting his troops to serve him in the way they desired. He did not do _entanglements_ and he did not let fragging taint his leadership decisions. 

So what in the Pit was he doing having fantasies about _Tarn_?

He’d fragged the DJD commander out of _duty_. To seal an alliance the traditional way and prove to his crew that he was serious about letting bygones be bygones and going forward as allies. That it had been _fun_ was a bonus, not the point, and now…now it was over and done with.

His talons stroked Tarn’s lovely wax finish again and Deathsaurus knew this wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

A hand seized his wrist in a grip so tight it was painful. Deathsaurus’s talons scrabbled for one last caress and missed. But the pain in his arm sent a jolt of excitement straight to his spike.

What was _wrong_ with him?

Outwardly, Deathsaurus turned his head casually, as though he _weren’t_ having his wrist mangled under the table. He didn’t let any discomfort show on his face. “Yes?” he murmured, unwilling to interrupt Drillhorn, who was still lecturing at the head of the room.

“In two minutes, check your comm link.” Tarn’s voice was low, but nevertheless authoritative. 

Deathsaurus kept his talons to himself for the next two minutes. He also kept his primary optics focused on Drillhorn. If his secondary optics stole glances to his left, well, that was just a matter of _situational awareness._

He perceived Tarn typing on a datapad, but he couldn’t tell what the message said. Not until his comm beeped with an incoming transmission.

TO: DEATHSAURUS ( _Thunder Arrow_ captain)

FROM: TARN (DJD commander; Decepticon Supreme Commander)

Report to me immediately following dismissal of briefing.

In the meantime, _behave_.

Deathsaurus flattened his feathers. He resented being told to mind his manners, as though he were some raw recruit. 

On the other hand, apparently he wasn’t going to be publically humiliated for his transgressions. Tarn was evidently the kind of person who liked to have a word in private. Deathsaurus’s opinion of Tarn rose by yet another notch.

Still, he needed to remember that perhaps Tarn would not be contented with a quiet word. Deathsaurus might yet find himself in the brig, or paraded about the Warworld in chains, to provide an example to the crew of what might happen to them should they raise Tarn’s ire. Deathsaurus might be made to regret his impetuous choice. If Tarn was angry enough, he might not even get an opportunity to know better next time. 

The shiver down his spinal strut ought to be apprehension.

But from where he sat, Deathsaurus had a terrible suspicion it was something far more akin to excitement.


	4. Put Me On A Highway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling like hell, but able to edit and clean this up enough to post...enjoy folks...it keeps heating up from here...

Chapter Four: Put Me On A Highway

Tarn was not used to other mechanisms _flirting_ with him.

Initially, there’d been a few perverts who’d gotten turned on by the idea of the DJD and the function they served. Their attraction was to the mythology of the DJD, not to Tarn himself. And in short order Tarn corrected their misconception that these sexual fantasies of theirs could be converted into reality. Creating and upholding the DJD’s mythology was his duty, and duty was a pleasure far deeper than mere interface. 

Before long nobody asked to interface with the DJD any more. They were _afraid_ to. They were afraid for the DJD to even notice their existence, and that was as it ought to be.

Of course, there were always the desperate ones. The mechs already in his clutches. The betrayers who flashed their valves at him, or, in some cases, their spikes too, in some kind of attempt at bargaining. _Take what you will and spare me. Please._

Tarn had never taken any of these mechs up on their last-gasp offers. Justice was not to be bartered with; and in any case he had no desire to stick his spike into a filthy traitor. He had forbidden any of his DJD to accept either—if any of them had ever been tempted, Tarn didn’t want to know.

For millions of years Tarn’s valve had belonged to Megatron, and Megatron did not _flirt_. Not with Tarn, anyway. His orders had always been clear: _on the berth. Spread your legs. Open your panels_. Megatron had spoken, and Tarn had obeyed, and that, too, was as it ought to have been. Megatron did not need to seduce someone who was already his.

Though Tarn had wished…

What? What had he wished? That Megatron’s attentions might be more like those of the heroes in the romance novels he enjoyed reading in his berth at night. That Megatron might find him worthy of praise, of caresses, of a seat at his side during an entertainment or a government function. That Megatron might take him to the Enclave as his consort for the evening…or longer. That Megatron might acknowledge him publically. Polish him up. Show him off.

That Megatron might…

No. _Conjunx endura_ was ridiculous. It was not something Tarn could even comfortably think about without squirming from embarrassment. No, he was not worthy, and anyway the Decepticon Emperor’s first loyalty and first love must always be the Cause.

Yet still Tarn had dreamed.

And now, now that those dreams were ashes and the Emperor’s mantle lay heavy on his shoulders, now, Tarn ought to content himself with marriage to the Cause.

But Deathsaurus was flirting with him, and it confused him. Disoriented him. It made him feel uncomfortable to be so unsure of himself. What was he supposed to _do_?

At first Tarn had thought it was a mistake. He’d thought that Deathsaurus’s foot had brushed against his solely by accident. And when Deathsaurus’s wing whispered over his calf, he’d felt irked that the other Decepticon wasn’t more mindful of his own body. Deathsaurus should keep his wings to himself, and not crowd other people. Had he gotten into bad habits during his time as leader of the Warworld?

But when Deathsaurus had touched his thigh, and given that insincere apology, Tarn had finally understood. Deathsaurus was trying to get his attention. Tarn wasn’t sure if Deathsaurus was trying to offer interface to a superior or demand it of a subordinate, but it made Tarn feel disoriented, and that made Tarn feel frightened and hostile.

Tarn remembered how his face had heated up under his mask. He couldn’t even concentrate on what Drillhorn was saying. It had taken him him the better part of ten minutes to comprehend that Deathsaurus apparently wanted him _that way_ , and by that time Deathsaurus was pressing him again, letting his talons wander under the table. Tarn had sent Deathsaurus a strictly worded comm just to buy himself time to _think_.

It had worked. Deathsaurus had behaved himself for the rest of the meeting. But now the meeting was almost over, and Tarn hadn’t yet figured out what he was going to do.

He’d thought that whole _frag to seal the alliance_ business was over and done with as of yesterday. Did they have to _keep_ fragging to maintain the alliance? Or did Deathsaurus think it was part of his duties, now, to provide sexual services to his leader? If that was the case, he certainly seemed _happy_ about it. 

Maybe…could it be…Deathsaurus just plain _wanted him_?

And if he did, how was Tarn to react? He couldn’t be getting all flustered like this every time he had to share a room with Deathsaurus. Should he tell Deathsaurus he belonged to the Cause? That wouldn’t address the unfortunate fact that his spike was pressing most uncomfortably against his panel right now. His spike was rather excited, in fact, that a powerful and striking mech like Deathsaurus apparently wanted to frag, with _him_ , and wasn’t afraid to make overtures in the middle of a crowded conference room, as though he _wanted_ everyone to see and know what he and Tarn did with one another. Tarn felt a shiver up his spinal strut just _thinking_ about that. 

And if Deathsaurus was keen on this whole valve-dominant philosophy, well, Tarn could just ask Deathsaurus to please take care of another little matter first before getting down to business…

Tarn shook his head. Fantasies weren’t helping. Because now it was time for him to get to his feet and gesture to Deathsaurus to follow him, and lead him out of the amphitheatre to a small office, and lock the door behind them, and act as though he were completely, effortlessly in control, when in fact his shoulders were trembling under his treads and his valve was threatening to flood through his panel.

He’d known command wouldn’t be _easy_ , but he’d never foreseen a complication like _this_.

Tarn forced his annoyingly persistent fantasies into an isolation compartment in his brain and got down to business. What was the most important point to make? _To teach Deathsaurus his place_. Yes. That would be good. Mechanisms who accepted their place in the chain of command didn’t get overly aggressive—or handsy—with their superior officers.

The isolation compartment cracked open. Tarn saw himself, bent over his own desk in his office on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ while Deathsaurus fragged him mercilessly. The dream-Deathsaurus stopped only long enough to growl a few words before resuming his punishing pace. Those words echoed in Tarn’s mind: _if you want me to stay in my place, you should do a better job of keeping me there. I’d almost think you_ wanted _me to push my luck._

Tarn shuddered. With desire or revulsion, he didn’t know. He pushed the memory back into the box with its fellows. Professionalism. Control. Precision. That was what he needed now.

He turned away from the locked door to face Deathsaurus. The Warworld commander stood in front of the room’s small table, wings flicking about in a manner that Tarn found impossibly insolent, though not quite disrespectful. That was Deathsaurus in a nutshell: outrageous, unpredictable, dangerous.

Tarn didn’t bother going behind the table. He didn’t want it to look as though he needed a barrier between himself and Deathsaurus. 

“What are you?” Tarn inquired, his voice dangerously soft. “An animal?”

Deathsaurus recoiled. Yes, good. Tarn had him on the defensive.

“A creature that cannot control when or where it ruts?”

Deathsaurus bristled. He stepped forward until he was all but snarling in Tarn’s face. “If I _could not control_ myself, we would have demonstrated to the entire assembly how thoroughly our alliance is sealed.”

Tarn felt a shiver up his spinal strut. He tried to hide it. He could only hope he’d been successful. He forced himself to lean forward and meet Deathsaurus’s challenge. “Is that part of your culture, then? Public interfacing?”

Now it was Deathsaurus’s turn to look embarrassed. “No. I think…I think the vid we played proved sufficient evidence that our alliance is not just an expedient lie.”

“And will our alliance crumble if we do not keep interfacing?”

“No, the, ah, the ceremonial joining is typically a one-time event,” Deathsaurus stammered.

Tarn tilted his mask. “Then is it simply that you cannot keep your talons off me?” 

An idea occurred to him, breathtaking in its crudeness, but surely it would be effective. If Deathsaurus did not want to be treated like a pleasure-bot, then he ought not act like one. 

Tarn steeled himself to do something very ill-mannered indeed.

He reminded himself that an Emperor could do as he pleased.

Tarn slid his hand down his torso and paused on his spike panel. Hesitated for effect. Popped it open.

He’d been afraid that his spike would remain in retreat, ashamed of such public display, but it emerged obligingly, firm and proud, the gold piercing through its tip glinting in the overhead lights.

Deathsaurus’s optics widened. The big mech actually took a step backwards.

“Is this what you wanted?” Tarn inquired.

There. Let Deathsaurus be ashamed. Let Deathsaurus stammer that no, he wasn’t a buymech, and didn’t care to be treated as one. Let Deathsaurus apologize for his promiscuous fawning. 

Deathsaurus dropped to his knees.

Tarn relaxed. This was going to be a delightful apology, and once it was done, he wouldn’t have to worry about Deathsaurus getting flirty with him again.

Deathsaurus opened his mouth. Leaned forward. Raised one hand to his beaked helm and shoved it back on his head with the hum of partial transformation.

And as Deathsaurus’s lips closed over the head of Tarn’s spike, Tarn realized he’d made a serious miscalculation.

  
  



	5. Show Me A Sign

  
Chapter Five: Show Me A Sign

To think Deathsaurus had thought that Tarn was _angry_.

Tarn must have wanted this as much as Deathsaurus did, and hidden it behind his prim and proper veneer. It certainly hadn’t taken Tarn long between the time he’d locked the office door and the time he’d popped his spike panel. And Tarn’s aggressive interrogation during that short time was probably—Deathsaurus smirked to himself—the result of how hard it had been for the DJD commander to keep his much-vaunted self-control in the face of Deathsaurus’s obvious interest.

Deathsaurus _had_ been pushing it, though. He freely admitted he was out of line. And so when Tarn did release his spike, Deathsaurus felt a certain degree of apology was in order.

Out here on the Rim, people didn’t put much stock in pretty words. Deathsaurus was tired to death of mechanisms saying they were sorry and then not doing anything to correct the problems that had required the apology in the first place. Deathsaurus believed in concrete action, not flattery, and so when he saw Tarn’s spike he knew exactly how to repent.

Fortunately, Deathsaurus rather enjoyed sucking spike. Unlike eating valve, this was something he’d done quite often before. It had always been his policy to reward good service, and if his subordinates were generous enough to let him use their spikes for his pleasure, he felt it only polite to offer to assist them. A good thorough suckling got most spikes pleasantly firm and helpfully wet; combined with the slickness of his valve, he could have a very nice time interfacing without any extra lubricant required. Most of his subordinates said that they quite liked the feeling of having their spike sucked, and for Deathsaurus’s part, he freely admitted he enjoyed the taste.

With Tarn, Deathsaurus made a point of going slowly. He delicately moistened the entire head of Tarn’s spikes with tiny licks, carefully lapping around Tarn’s barbaric piercing—just the idea of it set his wings quivering. With fear or desire, he didn’t know. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what Tarn liked and he recognized that Tarn outranked him. He remembered, belatedly, that Cybertronian culture slewed towards the perverse. Maybe what looked like to Deathsaurus like a kinky act of submission on Tarn’s part was how a a mech demonstrated sexual power on Cybertron. Hadn’t Megatron allegedly favoured his spike?

Deathsaurus froze, still holding Tarn’s spike between his lips.

Tarn moaned.

Deathsaurus’s wings rattled, caught between trepidation and hope.

Tarn reached down, lacing his talons behind the flared cheek section on Deathsaurus’s helm. “Don’t you stop now,” Tarn whispered.

Plea? Threat? Deathsaurus didn’t know and didn’t care. He was right where he wanted to be.

Deathsaurus hollowed his cheeks, sipping delicately on Tarn’s spike. The DJD commander sighed in appreciation. Tarn’s fingers stroked Deathsaurus’s helm gently as the rogue Decepticon suckled harder, taking the spike a little deeper. 

#

Deathsaurus was good, he was _so good_ and Tarn’s frame had absolutely no interest in putting a halt to this activity. It would be like taking one sip of a fine engex blend and throwing the rest away. Tarn couldn’t possibly bring himself to squander such riches. 

Something teased the piercing at the tip of his spike. At first Tarn didn’t know what. He couldn’t see the ring. The lower third of his spike disappeared between Deathsaurus’s lips, and didn’t the Warworld commander look awfully smug about it. 

Tarn hadn’t intended to _reward_ Deathsaurus for his outrageous behaviour. Later, he was going to have to deliver a stern lecture about propriety and decorum and fragging behind closed doors, and he _would_ , but not before this session was over. Tarn was not about to let Deathsaurus’s talents go to waste, not after the taste he’d already had and the promise of more to come.

Deathsaurus opened his mouth so that Tarn could see his own spike cradled on Deathsaurus’s tongue. Deathsaurus winked. Supported the spike head on his lower lip. Pulled the tip of his tongue back somehow—how did he do that? –and wriggled the tip between Tarn’s piercing and the spike head. The sensation it produced sent an electric shock to Tarn’s nervous system. Tarn hoped he hadn’t gasped out loud.

He probably had. Deathsaurus dimmed his optics, wrapped his upper lip around the spike again and resumed suckling. Increased sensations flooded Tarn’s senses. Waves of pleasure made his processor swim, while a low, aching heat in his tanks fueled his hunger for more. Good was not enough when he knew he could feel better still; and it was clear that Deathsaurus knew this and was deliberately taking his time. He could definitely hold more spike in his mouth than he already had. Tarn’s mouth went dry with anticipation. He reminded himself to savour the journey. This was too good to rush.

Tarn’s knees quivered. He locked them, willing his legs to support him as Deathsaurus took him deeper into his mouth. Deathsaurus’s tongue laved the underside of his spike, tracing his biolights with its tip, lapping at each sensitive node. The things Deathsaurus did with his tongue were indecent, and worse—Tarn was suspecting Deathsaurus’s tongue was far longer and more flexible than it had any right to be. An animal’s tongue. An animal’s tongue on a mech with a beast’s appetites.

Tarn was painfully aroused by these thoughts, even though he knew very well he ought to feel disgusted. He’d thought he’d had a decent handle on his kinks. This lust for Deathsaurus _because of_ rather than _in spite of_ his brutish, animalistic qualities was something entirely new, and Tarn wasn’t sure how to come to terms with it.

That was a question to ponder later when his spike wasn’t well on its way down Deathsaurus’s throat.

Deathsaurus sucked and slowly let Tarn’s spike slide, inch by agonizing inch, through his lips. Tarn’s knees shook again.

Damn it to the smelter! How could he properly savour Deathsaurus’s talents when he had to devote so much of his attention just to keeping himself standing? 

Deathsaurus sucked just a little harder and it took all of Tarn’s willpower to keep himself on his feet.

Truth be told, Tarn wasn’t very good at denying his frame’s urges. And right now, what his frame wanted was to relax completely, spread his legs a little wider, and let Deathsaurus continue his ministrations. Properly appreciating his subcommander’s efforts would surely occupy the entirety of his processor, probably for some time to come.

In desperation, Tarn looked back over his shoulder.

The table.

Not as good as a berth or a couch, but at least _something_ he could sit on to take the weight off his legs. Legs he could open much wider if he wasn’t relying on them to support his body.

A sound of need slipped out of his mouth. He already couldn’t wait.

Deathsaurus interpreted the sound as a request for more and drew on his spike, pulling fully half of it between his lips. Tarn could swear he felt his piercing nudge the back of Deathsaurus’s throat.

Drawing away from _this_ was going to be sheer torment.

Deathsaurus lapped at the piercing again and Tarn staggered. He caught himself just in time, but not before he was forced to plant his palms on Deathsaurus’s shoulders. The rogue commander grinned around Tarn’s spike. His gaze said it all: _like it, don’t you? Who’s the master now?_

Tarn groaned. _Take control now or lose._

It took every bit of his willpower to back away. He watched his spike slowly slip out from between Deathsaurus’s lips. Deathsaurus seemed to think he was teasing, because the rogue commander leaned forward, pursing his lips, chasing the spike. 

Tarn gritted his teeth and wrenched the tip of his spike out of Deathsaurus’s grasp. He felt his piercing catch on Deathsaurus’s teeth for an instant before coming free.

A lance of pain. A shudder of pleasure on its heels. Never mind the nuke… _this_ was what playing with one’s own destruction felt like.

Deathsaurus sat back on his haunches and glared at Tarn. Challenging. Tarn didn’t know if the rogue was insulted or being insult _ing_ , and he would worry about it in three steps…two steps…

Tarn’s legs trembled as he backed up.

One step…

The back of his thighs struck the table. He boosted himself up and sat, never mind how utterly uncouth it was to use a table as a chair. His spike throbbed, aching for the sweet attention that had been taken away from it.

Deathsaurus had watched his retreat, still saying nothing. Tarn tried to speak and his vaunted voice failed him. Only an incoherent squeak emitted from his processor.

Tarn patted his inner thigh instead.

Deathsaurus grinned. Like an obedient pet, he moved forward on all fours. Tarn barely saw him move before Deathsaurus was right up against him, his cheek resting on Tarn’s left thigh, his lips chasing the piercing on Tarn’s spike, grasping it…

_pain-pleasure-pain_

And using it to lift the spike head back in reach of the questing tongue, the hungry lips…

Tarn moaned his appreciation as Deathsaurus swallowed his spike once more.


	6. Nothing to Believe In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning on this chapter: negative sexual experience. More detail below for those who need it to decide if they want to read this chapter. If not, skip down to the break halfway through this chapter, and you’re good from then to the rest of the story.
> 
> Specifically: due to lack of communication between partners, one person changes his mind but fails to convey it to the other; other proceeds not knowing first person is having second thoughts. Therefore, “dubious consent” in that first person wants to say no but doesn’t actually mange to do it, and second person has no idea that first person is not enthusiastically consenting. First person experiences some discomfort before moment passes. After that, first person chooses of his own free will to proceed, and everything is 100% consensual from that point forward.

Chapter Six: Nothing To Believe In

Deathsaurus grinned as he pressed his assault. He had no qualms about crouching on all fours, nor about having Tarn’s spike so deep in his mouth. _He_ wasn’t the one moaning so prettily from his seat on the conference table. _He_ wasn’t the one with his legs spread, pleading for attention, caressing Deathsaurus’s helm and mewing in pleasure. 

How much longer should he suck Tarn’s spike? Tarn’s hips were already moving with abandon; he was building towards his overload, and Deathsaurus didn’t want that to happen while he still had the spike in his mouth. He drew back, ready to release Tarn’s spike.

“No, keep going,” Tarn urged. His hand closed around the back of Deathsaurus’s head, urging him to resume.

Deathsaurus realized he had made a critical error. He wasn’t in charge of this encounter, and he’d never sucked a mech off to completion before. 

Why would he? He usually sucked spike to get his partner’s spike hard and wet enough for the kind of ride he liked. Allowing his partner to climax defeated the purpose. He wanted to keep his lovers happy to serve him; he wanted them to associate his valve with their pleasure. 

What the hell was he supposed to do now? 

He’d heard that it could hurt to swallow the electrical charge of his lover’s overload. He wasn’t sure he was ready to do that, particularly with someone whose authority exceeded his own. He didn’t want Tarn to see him choking. He wasn’t _anyone’s_ fragtoy.

Deathsaurus tried pulling back again, but Tarn was having none of it. “Don’t stop,” the DJD commander growled, and Deathsaurus was certain he heard a note of warning in Tarn’s voice. 

Deathsaurus felt trapped, and he didn’t like it. He pulled back his lips and bared his teeth, letting the point of his fangs rake ever so lightly across the top of Tarn’s spike—an implicit threat. Tarn ought to know that his spike was in a mouth full of razor teeth. There would be consequences if he pushed Deathsaurus too far. 

Deathsaurus might be the subordinate here, but Tarn ought to know that it was Deathsaurus’s choice to give him either pleasure, or pain. 

Tarn’s optics flashed ruby. He sucked air into his intakes.

Deathsaurus braced for a blow to the head. Punishment for his audacity. Tarn wasn’t like him. Tarn ruled by fear, where Deathsaurus ruled by mutual respect. He had threatened Tarn and Tarn was sure to react with violence. It would teach Deathsaurus to stop making the mistake of treating Tarn like one of his crew instead of like his master…

…oh, and didn’t that rankle him, still. He’d been _beaten_. Now he served Tarn.

Tarn’s body arched. Deathsaurus gasped, confused. An instant later, Tarn’s spike leapt, pressing the metal of his piercing deep into Deathsaurus’s throat lining. The powerful crackle of electric charge bit into the back of his throat, burned its way down his gullet, lit his intakes on fire. He could feel a blazing brand where the electrified piercing had touched the lining of his mouth.

Deathsaurus tried to pull cool air into his mouth, but it wasn’t quite enough. He coughed, then choked. Tarn didn’t relent. Another pulse of electricity blasted into him, lighting him up from the inside out. Deathsaurus was so fixated on making sure his systems were still processing air that it took him a moment to understand what was happening.

Tarn was overloading. 

And apparently the trigger—what had taken him from building arousal to sudden uncontrollable overload—was the threat of Deathsaurus’s teeth.

_By the Inferno, how kinky can you get?_

Deathsaurus spat out Tarn’s spike. He didn’t care if it wasn’t a sexy thing to do. His throat was on fire. He coughed, trying to ground the charge. 

Tarn’s hand was still on his head, but suddenly it was no longer firm and commanding. Tarn’s hand slid down to Deathsaurus’s chin and lifted. Deathsaurus had no choice but to meet Tarn’s optics, even though he was still spluttering a little.

“Are you all right?” Tarn inquired.

That sudden, unexpected kindness stopped the breath in Deathsaurus’s intakes. He stared up at Tarn and swallowed reflexively. The flare in his throat faded rapidly. 

“I..I’m fine,” Deathsaurus stammered, and as he said it, he realized it was true.

Was _that_ it? Just that brief instant of electric charge passing down into his systems? That…that was _nothing_. Something that could get _Tarn_ writhing in helpless pleasure, coming undone before him….Deathsaurus would pay far more in blood and pain to get Tarn at his mercy, and count the price as cheap. 

Well. That hadn’t been nearly as unpleasant as he’d feared. Deathsaurus filed _suck Tarn’s spike until you wreck him_ into a mental compilation of weapons at his disposal. He also highlighted that business with his teeth.

But who in their right mind got off to pain? Who _wanted_ to be threatened by a master, in the berth or anywhere else? The very thought made Deathsaurus’s wings stiffen.

“You’re a kinky fragger,” Deathsaurus muttered. 

Tarn looked contrite and bowed his head as though he’d been caught out doing something naughty. 

That was rich— _Tarn_ , feared enforcer of the List, busted for transgressive behaviour. Deathsaurus was _fascinated_. It wiped his previous unpleasant thoughts right out of his head.

And Deathsaurus supposed it wasn’t _nice_ of him to shame Tarn. Not after Tarn had been such a gentleman about Deathsaurus coughing on a spike like an innocent fresh off the assembly line. Deathsaurus would _hate_ to leave that image in Tarn’s head as the highlight of their encounter in this office.

“I suppose that’s a lucky thing for me,” Deathsaurus purred, leaning close. He rested his hand on Tarn’s inner thigh. “I’ve been rather poorly behaved today.”

Tarn rested his palm on Deathsaurus’s helm. Deathsaurus chose to interpret the caress as a sign that he was forgiven.

If Deathsaurus was a cautious mech, he would accept the apology, bow to his Emperor, and leave. But for good or for ill, _caution_ had been in short supply on the day they brought him online. _Audacity_ had served him better during his lifetime, and now it was force of habit. He could no sooner restrain himself from his next move than he could halt his own processors.

“Don’t worry,” Deathsaurus murmured, sliding his other hand up to Tarn’s other thigh. “I fully intend to mind my manners now.” 

#

Mind his manners. Yes. Good. Tarn didn’t know why his brain sent pulses of regret through his systems. An Emperor ought to have troops who behaved themselves. Why were his emotions so contrary where Deathsaurus was concerned?

Tarn considered this puzzle right up until Deathsaurus ran his tongue over the panel concealing Tarn’s valve.

Tarn stiffened. Deathsaurus paused, then licked again, very slowly, very carefully. His talons gently scraped Tarn’s inner thighs. Tarn guessed that Deathsaurus was waiting to be told to stop.

Yes. Tarn should get right on that.

Deathsaurus’s tongue travelled up his panel a third time. Stopped. Gave three quick little licks to the area right over Tarn’s anterior node.

Tarn hissed as he willfully denied his frame’s request to open his panel. But by the Manifesto, he could imagine Deathsaurus’s tongue, moist and sweet on his node. His valve flooded with wetness in enthusiastic approval for this notion.

This was _not_ how Tarn would define _minding one’s manners_.

And yet, Tarn groaned from the pleasure. Deathsaurus continued his long, slow licks. Decadent and tantalizing. Sinful and sweet.

Tarn bit his lip and forced himself to look down at himself, sitting on the edge of a desk (something he’d always scolded Vos for doing), with Deathsaurus on his knees before him, hands on Tarn’s thighs, mouth between his legs, optics dim. It wasn’t the sort of sight Tarn was accustomed to, not even during his rare intimate indulgences. 

Tarn liked to think he had discriminating tastes, but now he was giving serious thought as to whether _discriminating_ actually meant _tiresomely predictable_. There was something to be said for a pretty little jet on his lap—particularly one who could do lovely things to Tarn’s spike with his valve—but when it came to intimate experiences beyond _serving Lord Megatron_ and _lapful of jet_ , Tarn found his other memories few and far between. Certainly Tarn had nothing to tell him, definitively, whether he liked having a big brute of a mech kneeling before him, lapping his valve area with a predatory intensity that made Tarn wonder if he was about to be worshipped or if he was about to be _devoured_. Tarn could only judge by his present response and that was not to be trusted, because there was _no way_ a mechanism of refined tastes such as himself could be so _egregiously aroused_ by a wild, uncouth _beast_ like Deathsaurus.

Of course, there was only one way to find out for certain.

Tarn could tell Deathsaurus to get out. It would be within his rights. He’d brought Deathsaurus in here to call him out on his outrageous flirting and he’d received an, ah, apology of sorts. Deathsaurus had accepted a consequence, at the very least. 

But then Tarn would never know whether big, powerful mechs—bestial mechs—were to his liking.

His valve throbbed in desperate need.

Tarn slid his hand over Deathsaurus’s helm, heading for his panel. May the Empire preserve him, he was going to do this. He _wanted_ to do this. So much.

The ironic secret that almost no one knew was that the head of the infamous Justice Division had so very little self-discipline.

It occurred to Tarn that he might also be giving Deathsaurus exactly what he wanted, and that might be a problem, if he didn’t want to encourage the rogue commander’s lascivious behaviour. Tarn gritted his teeth and stilled his hand, now resting on his own thigh. He vowed to give Deathsaurus a stern talking-to first, before indulging himself.

But then his panel snapped open of his own accord, and his body made the decision for him.


	7. You're Coming Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited for TFCon I have no words. Less than one week to go.

Chapter Seven: You’re Coming Back

Deathsaurus purred happily as he lapped the tasty treat spread out before him. Spread out, very literally—Tarn had reached down and taken the rings that pierced his valve lips with his own fingers, spreading his valve wide for Deathsaurus’s ministrations. How _thoughtful_. Now Deathsaurus could use his talons to probe the sensitive gaps in Tarn’s armour while his tongue sought out each node in turn for his thorough attention.

Truth be told, Deathsaurus quite liked eating valve. Maybe it was some vestigial remnant of his alt mode’s nature, but he enjoyed the taste. 

_Or maybe_ , he thought darkly, _it’s just easier to blame any inclinations towards savagery on the form I was given._

Deathsaurus shoved these thoughts out of his head. For the entire day he had attempted not to consider the potential ramifications of his construction method, particularly when compared to Tarn’s. The _point_ was that he had initiated this encounter and, instead of being punished, he had been encouraged to continue. He might not have the easy mastery over Tarn that he’d always had with his own troops, whether he’d asked for it or not, but did it matter when he’d gotten Tarn to spread his legs so prettily?

Tarn moaned, and Deathsaurus’s spark fluttered. Was Tarn’s talent getting out of control? Or was Deathsaurus’s response just his personal delight in reducing his so-called lord to such desperate sounds?

Deathsaurus smirked. He knew he was good at this. He could make Tarn beg, and he thought that he just _might_.

It had thrown a number of his prior lovers, that the Dragon of Destruction—or so his old colleagues had called him, though he wasn’t a dragon, not _really_ —would stoop to lick another’s valve. But it was hardly a sacrifice. They were honoured that he’d pay their valve any attention, and he didn’t have to actually spike them. He could make them overload again and again, and if they wanted something hard inside them, his talons would do the job. It made him look generous without ever actually requiring him to play stud. Usually they were so impressed that they were more than willing to let him use their spikes however he pleased.

It occurred to Deathsaurus that he might not be as lucky this time. Tarn was his leader now and could demand that Deathsaurus use his spike. He hadn’t minded swallowing his ego and using his spike last night, but he didn’t want Tarn to start treating him like a stud on call. Deathsaurus was still a warlord, and he still had his pride.

 _Well_. Deathsaurus would just have to make Tarn overload so hard and so often that his poor valve would be too tender to take a spike.

From the sounds Tarn was making, Deathsaurus figured he was already more than halfway there.

#

Tarn moaned—not for the first time. This time had been the loudest yet, though, and Tarn wondered how good the soundproofing was in this office. What if someone was walking past in the hall? What if someone heard the sounds of the Decepticon Emperor having his valve thoroughly licked out by his overly amorous field marshal?

 _Utterly inappropriate_. Tarn didn’t even want to imagine being seen in this state. The humiliation would be truly unspeakable.

Tarn leaned over to tap Deathsaurus on the helm. He had to get the mech’s attention. Though it really would be a pity to distract him from his current task. Deathsaurus seemed completely absorbed in laving first the right side of Tarn’s valve, then the left, with long, slow licks. After three repetitions, he did this delightful thing with his tongue and the ring in Tarn’s anterior node… No, Tarn didn’t want to break Deathsaurus’s concentration.

Then Tarn would simply have to keep quiet.

It ought to be easy. Megatron had always been very firm on that point: Tarn was to remain silent during intimate activity. Tarn had long ago learned to swallow his groans and cries lest Megatron stop prematurely. For a mech who could punish others with his voice alone, it was no wonder his Lord had wanted him to be silent.

But Deathsaurus was _good_. Tarn’s optics streamed with light as he pressed his teeth together.

It had been easy to be quiet with Megatron, and not because of Tarn’s supreme discipline, but because Megatron had never done the things that Deathsaurus was doing. Megatron had never stooped to lick Tarn’s valve. Megatron had never indulged him so _tirelessly_. Megatron had never made him feel like _this_ ….

Tarn bit down on his tongue, letting the taste of fuel fill his mouth. He _would_ be silent, no matter how it hurt.

And he was going to stop thinking about Megatron. 

Then Deathsaurus did something, and Tarn stopped thinking about much of anything at all. Pleasure exploded behind his optics like fireworks. Cool and wet, _so good_ …

What was Deathsaurus doing?

Delicately licking the back of his anterior node. Such careful, precise little licks. His tongue tip had to be traveling through the loop of Tarn’s piercing without jostling it to make those delicate, precise licks…

Tarn groaned. He wanted Deathsaurus’s tongue all over his node. He wanted Deathsaurus _inside_ him, and if he didn’t say something now, it really would be too late.

“Wait,” Tarn panted.

Deathsaurus drew back. Tarn felt his cheeks flush at the sight of his fluids smeared all over Deathsaurus’s face. To make matters worse, Deathsaurus lazily licked his lips, as though he were savouring the flavour.

“This isn’t _decent_ ,” Tarn protested.

Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge. “You want to stop?”

No. No, that was the last thing Tarn wanted. But…

“This is the sort of thing that ought to be done in private quarters,” Tarn scolded, “in the sanctity of one’s berth.”

“Oh.” Deathsaurus stretched his wings and rose to his feet. “Shall we, then?”

Tarn felt his face heat at the idea of Deathsaurus walking through the public hallways with Tarn’s valve fluid smeared all over his face. Didn’t Deathsaurus _care_ if everyone saw that he’d had his face in someone’s valve? Or… _worse_ …was Deathsaurus _proud_ of it? Did he _want_ everyone to know that he’d been feasting on Tarn’s valve?

Tarn ought to be disgusted, but instead he felt a perverse arousal. If Deathsaurus wanted to _brag_ about servicing Tarn…as though it were an _honour_ …Tarn actually wanted to _hear_ it. He _wanted_ to be Deathsaurus’s prize…

But not today. No, there was a problem with his fantasy, and it wasn’t just the humiliation of walking the hallways with fluids and talon scratches streaking his inner thighs. It was the simple fact that he didn’t trust his own knees to carry his weight. 

Tarn was too far gone. He needed his overload. Already his body was screaming in protest from having a sudden stop to his pleasure. He needed to climax, again and again….

“Not today,” Tarn said, trying to sound imperious. “Keep going….”

Deathsaurus shrugged, knelt down again, and resumed.

Thank fortune. Tarn bit down a moan at the delicious sensation of Deathsaurus’s tongue teasing his inner nodes.

Deathsaurus lapped away while Tarn felt his hips moving of their own volition. This, Tarn thought vacantly, must be why mechanisms believed in deities. Someone to pray to for strength to face their own desire to get fragged, hard, by a big beast of a mech…

Then Deathsaurus withdrew. “You don’t make this easy,” he panted. 

What? What could be easier than leaning back on a desk with his legs spread wide? Tarn tried to ask Deathsaurus to elaborate and managed only an inquisitive sound.

Deathsaurus looked up at him ruefully. Four censorious optics, biting into his own. “Most mechanisms have the good graces to tell me what they like.”

Tell...?

“But,” Tarn spluttered, “you don’t want me talking.”

Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge.

Tarn vented heavily, trying to find the words. “Weaponized conversation. Remember?”

Deathsaurus smirked. “Oh. So this isn’t just a challenge for me to divine what you like based on the tremors in your thighs or the arch in your spinal strut?”

Tarn quivered. Was that actually possible? Could Deathsaurus read his body like a datapad? “Do you think you…. _could…_ ”

“Oh, if I _had_ to.” Deathsaurus idly traced Tarn’s inner thigh, letting his talon wander close to Tarn’s valve… _so close_ …and yet not nearly close enough. “But while we’re discussing manners, if someone wants to play games, they should discuss them with their partner in advance.”

 _Games_. The idea made Tarn’s mind boggle. 

Interface, Tarn thought, was like a song. The notes and the words were laid out in advance; the art was in the performance. Whether with Megatron or one of his other lovers, the tunes might have been different, but in every case, Tarn knew how the melody would go. Deathsaurus’s comment suggested some outrageous improvisation, like those musicians who made up their songs as they played. Doing that in the _berth_?

 _Well, what do you think you’re doing right now?_ Already this encounter broke all of Tarn’s rules.

“I’ll remember that in future,” Tarn panted, buying himself time to think. “But…” He motioned with his wrist. “Please.”

Deathsaurus grinned. “As you command.”

Which ought to be deferential, but then Deathsaurus hooked his talon-tip into one of the rings that lined Tarn’s valve, and tugged it open, and slid his tongue inside, and all Tarn could think was that for all he had Deathsaurus on his knees, both of them knew the rogue commander had stooped to conquer.


	8. You're Running Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will ship it in hell.

Chapter Eight: You’re Running Back

Tarn lost count of how many times he overloaded. It seemed as though every time he climaxed, Deathsaurus found something new to do to bring his senses back online for another round. Now Deathsaurus’s tongue was indecently deep in his valve, and Tarn… He shuddered to imagine what he must look like.

He wasn’t exactly _sitting_ on the table any more. He was leaning back, bearing most of his weight on his elbows, while his thighs were up against Deathsaurus’s shoulders, and his feet on the outside of Deathsaurus’s wing roots. When he pumped his hips he pressed his anterior node between Deathsaurus’s lips…well, at first. Deathsaurus had moved as the encounter progressed. Now, when Tarn pumped his hips, he thrust Deathsaurus’s tongue deeper into his valve.

It felt _so unutterably good_.

What had he being doing all his life, toying around with those pretty little jets with their coy manners and expensive tastes? Why had he thought that a few sips on his spike was proof of their talents in the berth? They were single instruments: Deathsaurus was a symphony. They were lone singers: Deathsaurus was a choir. The rogue commander was intense, overpowering, all-consuming. Interface had never been like this.

Except…

Tarn’s mouth went dry as he remembered Megatron taking him by the hand, leading him to the berth, that very first time. _A reward for you, my faithful Tarn._

If what happened next had been bewildering and over far too quickly, well, that had nothing to do with how exciting it had been to have Megatron’s undivided attention, if only for a few moments. 

Tarn had sworn he wouldn’t think about Megatron, but he had no other memories that could compare. Deathsaurus: pretty wings and a sly smile like Tarn’s delicate little jets, but his strength and his audacity and the overwhelming force of his presence…

_Megatron with wings_.

All Tarn’s fetishes wrapped up together in one rogue warlord who was barely, tenuously, under Tarn’s command. 

Tarn was playing with white-hot fire, toying with Deathsaurus so intimately, and he had to stop before he burned himself and the entire Decepticon cause to ashes.

But pure _need_ lanced through his frame, as his valve cried for something deeper, something _more_ , and if Tarn was going to step back from the brink, well, it wouldn’t be until he’d had the final satisfying overload he so desperately craved.

#

Deathsaurus’s jaw was getting sore, and he knew he’d have an ache in it later, but be damned if he was ready to stop now. Not before Tarn was well and truly wrecked.

He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable somewhere else in his body. Deathsaurus had never been one to mind a little damage—or a lot of damage, to be honest—in pursuit of a worthy objective, and so he ignored it, pressing through the pain, keeping his attention focused on making sure Tarn had no escape from the relentlessly building pleasure. Still, he couldn’t quite keep himself from fidgeting. Unfortunately, moving didn’t relieve that vague and undefined discomfort. It wasn’t until his brain received a ping from his neural net, telling him that his spike panel wanted to retract, that he realized what was going on—and that there was a fatal flaw in his clever little plan.

Well. This would teach him to be so impulsive.

He’d started making overtures to Tarn out of…he didn’t even know what. Boredom, to an extent. Definitely more attraction than he’d been willing to admit. But in the end, Deathsaurus supposed the point of his flirting had been _defiance_. 

He didn’t like having a master over him. He didn’t like someone else holding his life in their hands. When he’d gone AWOL in defiance of Megatron’s command, he’d sworn he’d never bow to another again.

He did not _trust_ others to have his best interests at heart…and it rankled him to be _forced_ to accept Tarn’s leadership. Even if it was better than having himself and all his crew killed by the DJD. Even if his crew, united with the DJD, could do things they never could have done alone.

Subconsciously, he had rebelled. Even as his conscience mind had accepted the alliance, his subconscious had compelled him to test Tarn’s patience. To provoke him, taunt him, bring out a confrontation. Deathsaurus had known better. And he had done it anyway.

Now here he was, and he’d thought he was so clever, sucking Tarn off and licking him out, making him overload until he was too drunk on pleasure to demand the service that was his due. Which would have been a masterful plan except for one small problem:

_Deathsaurus’s spike was aching in a way he’d never known_.

The _problem_ was that licking Tarn out was turning Deathsaurus on, _hard_. Sucking him off had been challenging enough. Typically Deathsaurus sucked a spike with the intent of _riding_ it. So his systems had been spinning his fans and moistening his valve for a ride that never came, because there was no way a subordinate officer such as himself could ask his superior to take the submissive role and spike him. 

He’d started eating Tarn out with the idea of avoiding having to bow to the submissive role himself. If Tarn got off so often that his valve became oversensitized, he’d let Deathsaurus go without asking for the use of his spike. Deathsaurus liked eating valve, and was good at it, and Tarn had been—surprisingly responsive, really. 

Except that nowhere in this clever plan had there been a mechanism to get Deathsaurus off. And while he’d thought he’d go back to his quarters and take care of it himself—a few fingers up his valve usually did the trick—he hadn’t expected his spike to cast a vote for attention.

He hadn’t expected that he’d want to interface with Tarn so badly. The DJD commander didn’t need to force him if he could _bewitch_ him.

It took all Deathsaurus’s willpower to deny his body’s demand to retract the spike cover. He had to grit his teeth, and Tarn noticed that he’d stopped licking.

“Taunt me,” Tarn growled, “at your peril.”

Deathsaurus bowed his head and obeyed, but his wings stiffened at the unwanted reminder that he was no longer a mech in charge of his own destiny. But even in this subordinate role, he had no intention of handing himself over to Tarn, mind and spark. His body could be commanded, but his soul remained his own.

His soul, though, wasn’t particularly interested in its liberty right now. It was interested collaborating with his body to get his spike into Tarn and frag him as hard as possible.

_What was happening to him?_

He’d used his spike before, but rarely. He’d _tried_ to have an egalitarian relationship with Leozack, and look how that had turned out. Most of his spike experience was long ago and better not thought about. That left him…last night to go by.

And apparently his frame was going by how much pleasure it had experienced last night, and insisting on a repeat performance.

He’d gone to Tarn’s berth, resigned to the knowledge that Tarn had defeated him in battle and would use him as he pleased. He hadn’t expected Tarn to make the experience enjoyable. He _definitely_ hadn’t expected Tarn to _return the favour_. And while he couldn’t count on that kind of generosity happening again, the fact remained that his frame had gotten a taste of spiking Tarn’s valve and now it wanted more.

Tarn’s valve. That valve that had been locked away by a hard metal clasp through nine intimately tender piercings. 

The valve that he had now thoroughly licked out. Tarn was so wet, so open and ready….

Tarn whined. “Make me…make me overload,” he panted. His hips moved ineffectively. “Why is this taking so long? Deathsaurus! Make me overload!”

Deathsaurus bit down his own hunger and smiled smugly. 

Tarn had already overloaded so many times that he wasn’t as sensitive as he used to be. Licking him to climax would require a lot of attention, and Deathsaurus’s tongue was getting sore from its workout. Fortunately, Tarn hadn’t been specific about _how_ Deathsaurus accomplished the task, and that meant he had some room for creativity.

Deathsaurus drew back, using his left hand to pin Tarn’s abdomen against the desk. Tarn’s hips bucked uselessly on air. The DJD commander hissed as the source of pleasure vanished before he’d had his satisfaction. “Deathsaurus, if you’re toying with me…” Tarn threatened.

Deathsaurus popped his right hand’s index and middle fingers into his mouth and got them good and wet.

A shame he couldn’t take a little time to admire the sight of Tarn’s valve, what with its swollen lips flared wide, and its interior gleaming with a mixture of its own lubricants and the moisture Deathsaurus had added with his tongue. Deathsaurus would really like to appreciate how the piercings stood out at such a remarkable angle when the valve lips were so enlarged, or how the ring in Tarn’s anterior node seemed to beg to be played with. Ah well. Even warlords couldn’t always get everything they wanted.

Deathsaurus curled his two fingers and applied the second knuckle of his index finger right behind Tarn’s anterior node, while the second knuckle of his third finger pressed into the valve. “Better?”

Tarn blinked, looking dazed.

But he was still moving his hips.

Deathsaurus grinned as he saw Tarn’s optics light up with understanding…and raw lust.

With every thrust, Tarn ground down against Deathsaurus’s hand. The knuckle in his valve gave his lower calipers something firm to grip; the knuckle behind his node gave him something hard to rub against. Tarn braced himself on his elbows to thrust harder, faster, against Deathsaurus’s hand.

Tarn’s mewls increased in volume, frequency, and, yes, intensity. Deathsaurus swore he felt his spark shiver in pleasure. Tongues were delightful, they really were, but after a good long licking out, a mech wanted something hard and firm to press into himself. The prior servicing had only served to whet Tarn’s appetite for something more, and now that Deathsaurus was giving it to him, he was coming undone before Deathsaurus’s eyes. 

Deathsaurus pondered sliding his fingers right into Tarn’s valve and letting his thumb take care of that anterior node, but he decided against it. Let Tarn _ask_ for it. It was ever so lovely to watch him just the way he was.

It was _fascinating_. The dreaded leader of the DJD on the verge of becoming wrecked with pleasure at Deathsaurus’s hands.

Tarn’s hands hooked into claws and gouged furrows in the desk. Deathsaurus almost laughed with delight as he imagined Tarn trying to explain where they’d come from. The DJD commander threw back his head in complete abandon and moaned loudly, a warbling tone that sounded like a song.

Deathsaurus knew better, but he couldn’t help himself.

_“Come for me_ ,” he whispered, as he uncoiled his fingers and slid his second and third digits into Tarn’s wet and hungry valve. His thumb pressed in circles on Tarn’s slippery little node.

And Tarn almost bent in half with the force of his overload.

He gasped, optics flaring, sitting up and leaning forward until the tip of his mask brushed Deathsaurus’s helm and the rogue warlord laughed. Tarn’s hands scrabbled for purchase, found Deathsaurus’s shoulders, hung on. His fans blasted Deathsaurus’s body with heat. His valve clamped down hard on Deathsaurus’s fingers, rippling delicatably…

Deathsaurus’s spike ached. His optics streamed with light from the strain of keeping his panel shut. By the Fates, but he wanted his spike to go where his fingers were.

He’d been afraid Tarn would keep him for stud. He’d never imagined that part of him would _want_ him to.

Deathsaurus bit his tongue, hard enough to taste his own energon in his mouth. He would _not_ ask Tarn if he could use his spike. He would _not_ encourage Tarn to take what was his due. He would _not_ stoop to willingly enslaving himself. 

The tremors wracking Tarn’s body ebbed as the DJD commander’s climax faded. Tarn still kept his death grip on Deathsaurus’s shoulders, his breathing ragged in Deathsaurus’s audio, his fans roaring. And Deathsaurus’s fans were keeping pace. Fate preserve him, but he was running hot. Deathsaurus wondered if he could make it to his own quarters, or if he’d only get as far as the office next door before he was on his knees servicing his own spike, trying to find some relief.

“Deathsaurus,” Tarn panted.

Weaponized conversation? Deathsaurus’s grin broadened. Tarn’s infamous voice was ragged and breathy and thoroughly _disarmed_. And Deathsaurus _loved_ it that way. 

He could listen to this for _hours_. 

“Please,” Tarn continued. His fingers slid up Deathsaurus’s arms, heading for the roots of his wings. “Please, won’t you spike me… _please_.”

Deathsaurus froze.

He swore he heard the echo off the walls of the sound of his spike panel snapping open.

His own body was out of control, but even so, Deathsaurus had made a career—and kept himself alive—by thinking quickly. He favoured Tarn with a smarmy grin to imply that this had been his intention all along.

“Well,” Deathsaurus said. “I _suppose_. Given as you’ve asked me so _nicely_.”


	9. Back for More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, I need buckets of Tarnsaurus fluff right now.
> 
> Yes, the series will continue, and divert from canon where need be.
> 
> Enjoy Loving Evil Partnership :)

Chapter Nine: Back For More

Oh no. Oh _no no no_. The Decepticon Emperor mustn’t _beg_.

But as Deathsaurus rose to his feet, Tarn realized it was already too late.

He told himself that giving Deathsaurus an order would’ve been all kinds of inappropriate. Intimacy was something entirely separate from duty. It had to be. A commander could order a subordinate to put his life in danger, but he could not— _must not_ —order that subordinate into his berth. Tarn had hunted down and eliminated more than one Decepticon officer who had failed to understand the difference. 

No matter how much Tarn might fear that his control over Deathsaurus was tenous at best and slipping far faster than he would like, he would _never_ cross that line. At least not with a fellow Decepticon. Anyone else could be….well, not _ordered_ , but definitely _seduced_. _Enthralled_. But no matter how much of a rogue Deathsaurus was, he’d never taken off his purple badge.

Still, Tarn couldn’t convince himself that what he’d done had been proper conduct for an Emperor. A request, certainly. An invitation, definitely. But Tarn feared his words had been far more like a _plea_.

Tarn shoved it out of his mind. He was going to get what he wanted. Surely that was good enough.

His valve certainly thought so. He couldn’t remember ever being so wet. It was unseemly, the way it gushed fluids, dribbling down his thighs. It was promiscuous, the way the lips had enlarged and curled back, displaying the centre. His calipers fluttered on air and he groaned. 

_What had Deathsaurus done to him?_

And the spawn of a glitch didn’t seem to be in any hurry to…Tarn wasn’t entirely certain of protocol in a room with no berth and a chair that was entirely too small for two mechanisms of their size. Lay him back on the desk, he supposed. He was still sitting on the edge, leaning backwards, his legs dangling now that Deathsaurus had disentangled himself and stood up.

Deathsaurus braced his arms on either side of Tarn’s hips and grinned down at him with a distinctly predatory look in his optics.

Tarn felt uneasy and aroused in equal measure. He squirmed from the ache in his valve and the way his breath paused in his vents. He wanted this, but he wasn’t entirely certain he could trust Deathsaurus, which made doing this a very bad idea and he would put a stop to it if only his valve wasn’t aching _so_ much, if only he didn’t need it so _badly_ , if only at some point in his life he’d bothered to practice moderation and restraint. 

Deathsaurus grabbed Tarn’s hips and hauled him forward.

Tarn squealed and scrabbed for support. _Most_ undignified. But falling off the edge of a desk would be worse.

Except that he didn’t fall. Tarn found Deathsaurus’s spread talons cupping his aft, Tarn’s upper thighs pressed against Deathsaurus’s, Tarn’s hands clutching the rogue commander’s shoulders, and Tarn’s valve…

_Oh._

His valve delicately balanced against the tip of Deathsaurus’s spike.

To Tarn’s embarrassment, he wasn’t certain if they were actually interfacing yet—if Deathsaurus’s spike was inside him or just on the verge of entry. It was shocking, not to know. He wriggled, trying to get a better sense of where Deathsaurus’s spike was.

 _Mrgh_. Tarn could feel its head against the back of his anterior node. It felt incredible, and he wanted more of it. He shifted his hips left, then right.

He felt his lowest set of calipers stretching and realized that if Deathsaurus hadn’t been inside him already, he was now.

Tarn trembled, poised on the point of Deathsaurus’s large and savage spike, wondering why the rogue commander wouldn’t just _frag him already_.

“Tarn,” Deathsaurus snarled.

This was it, this was when Deathsaurus demanded his surrender and Tarn didn’t know what to do, didn’t know if he could trust his body not to betray him, betray his Empire, become the exact same kind of weak-willed traitor he’d devoted his life to destroying. He shifted his weight, felt his calipers slowly stretch as gravity pushed him down onto that spike, and bit his lips as his spinal strut went weak. He had no deity to pray to for deliverance. And _it felt so good._

Tarn’s response was a breathless mew of query. Whatever Deathsaurus wanted, he would give. He knew it now. He admitted it. Deathsaurus had laid his trap and he’d taken the bait; now Deathsaurus had him where he wanted him.

“Are you sure?” Deathsaurus growled.

What kind of stupid question was that? Tarn was speechless. He’d been ready to capitulate _anything_ and all Deathsaurus wanted was confirmation that his strategy had _worked?_ Didn’t the state of his valve make Deathsaurus’s victory _obvious?_

He writhed in Deathsaurus’s grip, trying to find a position in which his calipers could get a proper grip on that deliciously firm spike.

“I’m sure,” Tarn admitted. 

Deathsaurus responded with a sound that might have been words, but the syllables were swallowed up in an animalistic roar. 

Deathsaurus moved his hands closer to his body, and Tarn’s aft with them. At the same time he _lifted_ , and the effect of gravity became more pronounced. Tarn’s thighs slid down Deathsaurus’s leg and his valve…

… _oh._

His valve slid down that big blue spike.

Deathsaurus’s spike was a bestial monstrosity, rather like the rest of him, but much to Tarn’s surprise, his valve swallowed it smoothly. All that licking and the business with the fingers—he was wet and stretched and wholly aroused, and so instead of feeling as though he were being uncomfortably pierced, as though the spike were invading and conquering his valve, he felt instead as thought that spike was seeking out a void of hunger inside him and filling it with comfortable satisfaction instead. Satisfaction and _so much pleasure_. 

Tarn groaned loudly in Deathsaurus’s audial. It felt so good he couldn’t help but express it. Deathsaurus shuddered, and Tarn wondered if he’d inadvertently laced his voice with his own pleasure or if his valve felt as good to Deathsaurus as Deathsaurus’s spike did to him.

Tarn tried to pump his hips, to take more of that spike, but it wasn’t easy. Deathsaurus was holding most of Tarn’s weight in his hands, and Tarn’s body was so close to Deathsaurus’s already. It was hard for Tarn to get any leverage to push against. Worse, the last thing he wanted to do was make Deathsaurus drop him.

Tarn supposed there were some situations where the best thing for a mech to do was to simply dim his optics and enjoy.

Deathsaurus lifted him up, and Tarn keened as he felt the spike move inside him. _No, that’s the wrong way. I want it deeper. Deeper._ He tightened his grip on Deathsaurus’s shoulders. His vaunted eloquence had been reduced to a mewl of inarticulate need.

Deathsaurus lowered him again, and Tarn winced as he heard his valve make obscene wet noises. Deathsaurus chuckled lowly, as though those noises excited him. Filthy animal. Then Tarn felt the head of Deathsaurus’s spike striking node after node as it delved deeper into his valve and he decided not to care about his modesty for a while.

Deathsaurus helped him move, up and down, taking a little more of his spike each time. Tarn wrapped his arms around Deathsaurus’s neck, held on, and enjoyed. There was something about surrendering all control…about letting go and letting Deathsaurus pleasure him, allowing his partner to do as he would…that felt unspeakably decadent and indulgent. All the pressures of commanding his team and his Empire were lifted away from him. The only thing he needed to do in this moment was to savor the experience.

What had Deathsaurus said about using his valve? Something to the effect of _the ultimate in dominance is to command your subordinate to pleasure you as you wish to be pleasured, secure in the knowledge that your mastery is absolute._ Tarn was starting to see where Deathsaurus was coming from.

On the other hand, Deathsaurus had also said something about being confident in that mastery and not begging…

So this encounter wasn’t perfect, and in the moment Tarn didn’t care. In that beautiful moment when the nuke hit his systems, that perfect instant when he was in between forms…and now, apparently, when Deathsaurus’s spike was buried deep in his valve…Tarn could forget about his past and his future, his shortcomings and his anxieties, and simply _be_ and _feel_. 

Regrets would come later. They always did. But he still had his nuke supply, however diminished, and he’d found ways to replace his shattered t-cogs. He would find a way to keep Deathsaurus in his thrall. He would get by, as he always had, somehow.

Which would be easier if he had any idea what Deathsaurus was thinking right now. Tarn forced his optics to come online. He eased himself back from Deathsaurus’s chest, not because he wanted to get away—he actually winced at the bite of cold air rushing between their heated frames—but because he needed enough distance to see Deathsaurus’s expression.

What he saw wasn’t at all what he had expected.


	10. Burning Out

Chapter Ten: Burning Out

Tarn had expected to see a vicious smile on Deathsaurus’s lips. Tarn had, after all, broken down and begged his subcommander to spike him. Deathsaurus had every right to take full satisfaction in his victory.

Instead, Deathsaurus had his face bowed and turned slightly away. Tarn actually had to brace his left arm across the warlord’s shoulders and use his right hand to lift Deathsaurus’s chin.

Deathsaurus’s optics rippled with light. He had bitten down on his lip so hard that a trail of energon had spilled over and trickled down his jaw. 

Deathsaurus didn’t look like a gloating victor at all.

He looked _beaten_.

For an instant Tarn forgot his pleasure. It was all wrong if Deathsaurus wasn’t enjoying this as much as he was.

Tarn gently stroked the spilled fuel away with his thumb.

Deathsaurus moaned. His optics flickered. He thrust deeper and mewed.

“Do you want to stop?” Tarn asked.

Deathsaurus mewed again, louder, and his optics flashed with panic. “N-no,” he managed.

Tarn bit his lip and thought hard. “It feels good for you?”

“Y-yes.” Deathsaurus pulled back his lips in what Tarn thought was a snarl. “Too good,” he confessed, and Tarn realized it was a grimace instead.

Only then did Tarn remember that the Rim had a very different culture than Cybertron. Somehow, through some mechanism Tarn couldn’t begin to guess at, Deathsaurus and his people considered the valve mech dominant.

Deathsaurus wasn’t asserting his mastery. He was _serving_.

And Tarn wasn’t capitulating…he was rubbing in the fact that he was the Lord and Deathsaurus was his to command.

Deathsaurus must have taken Tarn’s begging as an order. A necessity. The proud and independent Warworld commander belonged to Tarn, now, and despite his obvious pleasure in their current interface, he was struggling with guilt, and shame, and maybe more than a little resentment.

Well, good. Tarn should be satisfied that he’d taught the rogue a sorely-needed lesson in humility.

And yet the idea of reducing Deathsaurus to some beaten slave tore at his spark.

Deathsaurus was _not_ his prisoner or his enemy. They were supposed to be partners, even equals. There was supposed to be a certain measure of mutual respect that Tarn wouldn’t get if Deathsaurus only obeyed him out of fear.

From the shudders racking Deathsaurus’s frame, Tarn guessed that the Warworld commander was only moments away from overload. Yet somehow he still hung on, denying himself, pumping his hips, prolonging Tarn’s pleasure. Who would do that for a slavemaster?

Deathsaurus’s words from their first encounter replayed through Tarn’s mind. _I expect two or three overloads out of a stud before granting them their release._

Deathsaurus _was_ on that edge where pleasure had long ago become pain, but he was exerting a truly incredible self-discipline to fulfill what he felt was his duty.

And Tarn realized, to his surprise, that he wasn’t enjoying Deathsaurus’s pain at all. The whole affair felt too much like _work_. Tarn’s private time was supposed to be a respite from work—all that dirty torture business—and he took no delight in tormenting Deathsaurus, no matter how good the mech’s spike felt.

Surely Deathsaurus had learned his lesson by now. Tarn’s valve certainly felt good.

And surely Tarn would get further on goodwill than on coercion.

It had nothing— _nothing_ —to do with this bewildering sensation of _guilt_ weighing on his spark like a film of grime.

Tarn reached out, stroking Deathsaurus’s cheek. Deathsaurus did not resist. Tarn ran his hand over the other mech’s helm, back to the base of his neck, where spiny feather-like protrusions—a remnant of his beast mode—decorated his spine like battle armour. Deathsaurus keened when they were touched, and Tarn jerked his hand away, only to have Deathsaurus press his face into Tarn’s neck and make needy, whining noises.

_It must feel good._

Tarn rubbed one of the feathers, experimentally, and Deathsaurus sighed in obvious pleasure. For an instant, he smiled. Then his brow creased with that pained look, his spike twitched in Tarn’s valve, and Deathsaurus bit down on his own lip unmercifully. Tarn watched energon ooze up from the raw punctures.

“Deathsaurus,” Tarn whispered.

Deathsaurus looked up at his master.

“ _Come for me.”_

Deathsaurus’s wings snapped out straight behind him. His face betrayed obvious confusion. His lips twisted as he sought for words while trying to contain what was clearly a ferocious desire.

And Tarn could be magnanimous in victory.

“You’ve overloaded me so many times,” Tarn murmured. “It’s your turn.”

Deathsaurus looked uncertain. “But…”

Tarn stroked another feather. “You’ve done so well. Now. _Come for me_.”

Even if Deathsaurus wasn’t in the mood to obey cheerfully and willingly, his frame clearly had ideas of its own. Deathsaurus reached out, grasped Tarn’s hips in his talons and thrust in hard and deep.

Tarn groaned. It really was a pity he wasn’t going to get one more overload out of this. There was something incredibly arousing about the feeling of Deathsaurus’s sharp talons digging into his hips, or the sheer _force_ the Warworld commander was using.

Deathsaurus threw back his head and emitted a sound that was half avian shriek, half draconian growl. It was a savage, feral sound—the cry of an animal claiming its mate. He pounded against Tarn, _hard,_ twice as fast as before, driving his spike deep. Tarn felt Deathsaurus’s jack click into his port. 

_Oh. Right._ Tarn really ought to put a cap on his port if he was going to be casually fragging his command staff. He’d never done it before because only Megatron had ever gotten near his valve. Tarn liked to pretend that his motivations had been a desire not to offend Megatron by refusing to download data from his systems, but in truth Tarn had hungrily drank up every bit of data Megatron would offer. Which was precise and selective. Some individuals had mastered the art of tailoring data for their interface partners, even though most mechs tended to upload involuntarily and at random. 

The last time, Tarn had downloaded Deathsaurus’s thoughts as he entered Tarn’s berth. Apprehension and appreciation. Desire and wariness. Tarn had thought he’d gotten that data solely because it was something recently on Deathsaurus’s mind.

This time, though, Tarn wasn’t getting Deathsaurus’s recent thoughts as he let his hands and wings go wandering during the staff briefing. The data packet opened and Tarn found himself observing something wholly unexpected.

#

_The DJD will come for you._

Tarn experienced the memory through Deathsaurus’s eyes, and felt the other mech’s lived sensations as though they were his own. 

Deathsaurus stood on the bridge of the Warworld at some unspecified point in the past. Tarn recognized the room, although it was cleaner, _newer_ , and it looked much tidier, even if some of the equipment was out of date by modern standards. Leozack stood in front of him, his hands folded across his chest, as though he were trying to talk Deathsaurus out of something.

“I would be surprised,” Deathsaurus said casually, “if I wasn’t on the List already.”

But Tarn had a view from behind Deathsaurus’s eyes. He could feel Deathsaurus’s gut clench, knew the tremor of fear running down Deathsaurus’s spinal strut. Deathsaurus knew well enough to fear the Decepticon Justice Division. It was clear to Tarn that Deathsaurus understood what being caught would mean.

“It’s madness,” Leozack persisted. “We’ll all die.”

Deathsaurus’s vision flashed red. “We’ll die _anyway_ if we carry out Megatron’s mad order, and we’ll die for _no reason_. No. I for one am damned well going to _live_ before I die.”

“But the Justice Division…”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Deathsaurus said coldly, but Tarn was shocked by the ripple of pain in Deathsaurus’s spark at the thought of being abandoned by Leozack.

Leozack glanced at the floor. “I’ll come,” he muttered. “I just hope I won’t regret it when the DJD catch up with us.”

Deathsaurus looked out at the field of stars and asked himself if his men were as damned as he, or if he was sealing their fates to his own if he dared carry out his mad plan. 

He was going to ask Black Shadow to help him steal a Warworld.

And why not?

He had been damned long ago.


	11. Would You Still

Chapter Eleven: Would You Still

Tarn had always found the thoughts of traitors repulsive, so there was some irony now in the fact that he was gripping Deathsaurus’s golden chest horns in his hands as overload ravaged his frame, even while his mind was still coming to terms with the memory he’d downloaded. 

Tarn had always thought that Deathsaurus had made a bad decision in a moment of anger and burned a bridge he couldn’t rebuild. Even after reading Deathsaurus’s file, he’d dismissed the Warworld commander as mercurial, moody, impulsive, and illogical. The idea that Deathsaurus had known and fully understood the repercussions of his behaviour and chosen to persist in his theft anyway staggered him. The realization that Deathsaurus had considered himself already bound for the List hit Tarn even harder.

_What had Deathsaurus done…?_

It was definitely something to think on…some other time, when Tarn’s systems weren’t in the midst of being overwhelmed by pleasure.

Tarn’s wet, juicy valve was more than capable of handling everything Deathsaurus was giving it, and Deathsaurus wasn’t holding back. His spike pounded into the valve over and over with a force and frequency better befitting a rutting beast. By any logic it ought to hurt, but the actual sensation was quite the opposite. Deathsaurus’s spike head hit a certain place in Tarn’s valve with breathtaking precision and the results made Tarn see static. The ridges on that spike firing off Tarn’s internal nodes were just icing on the oilcake. Tarn had no idea valve interface could feel this good. 

Deathsaurus screamed, flooding Tarn’s valve with electricity, and that act was just enough extra stimulation to push Tarn’s hard-used and oversensitized valve into one more throat-clenching, fan-burning overload.

Tarn arched his back, pressing his hips hard against Deathsaurus, who took most of his weight, his wings flared out behind him for counterbalance and his lips drawn up into a snarl of ecstasy. For an instant they stood frozen like erotic statuary. Tarn’s frame wasn’t in contact at all with the desk he’d been sitting on; Deathsaurus grasped Tarn’s aft in his hands, and Tarn realized his legs were wrapped around Deathsaurus’s waist.

Then the moment passed. Deathsaurus’s spike, utterly spent, slipped from Tarn’s valve. Deathsaurus exhaled, setting Tarn back down on the desk with an unusual delicacy, as thought Tarn were made of fragile crystal and not heavy plate armour and battle-hardened steel. It was an odd feeling, though, Tarn realized, not at all unpleasant.

Deathsaurus fell to his knees.

Tarn sat there on the edge of the desk—rather awkwardly. His valve was still swollen enough that it hurt a little to close his panel, but the thought of dripping fluids onto _someone’s desk_ was not to be contemplated. A little pain was better than _that_. He forced his panel closed, muttering to himself, but only after it latched did he realize that Deathsaurus was still on the floor.

The Warworld commander’s head hung low in defeat. His wings drooped, hanging limply from his shoulders. His arms clutched his midsection as though he were cold—or in pain.

Tarn had seen this kind of posture before. It had looked very good on Pharma, for example.

It didn’t look good on Deathsaurus at all.

Tarn felt sickened and very, very confused. What in the Smelter was wrong with him? Deathsaurus had been out of line and he’d put his ally back into his place, all without the need for any physical violence. Tarn should be _pleased_.

But Tarn didn’t want what they’d just done to be a _punishment_.

He felt good. He’d enjoyed himself…maybe the location left something to be desired, but surely that could be negotiated. The point was that he rather hoped Deathsaurus might consider doing that again. Which wouldn’t happen if Deathsaurus associated it with being disciplined.

Tarn slid off the desk, grateful for the mask that hid his wince. His poor valve was very tender indeed from the pounding it had taken…two days in a row, now. His knees didn’t want to take his weight, and maybe there was something to be said for not looming over Deathsaurus right now. Looming tended to inspire the exact sort of feeling that Tarn was anxious to avoid.

Ugh, there weren’t very many other options in this room, though. Even using the room’s single chair would look imperious to a mech on his knees. 

Tarn took a deep breath and carefully went down on one knee on the grungy carpet, trying not to think about where those stains had come from, or how recently it had been cleaned.

Deathsaurus didn’t react. Tarn watched his hands curl into fists and squeeze, once, twice. His claws had to be cutting into his palms, but if it hurt, it didn’t show on his face.

Tarn slid his hand under Deathsaurus’s chin and guided the other mech to look him in the optics.

Unlike in the heat of interface, Deathsaurus’s face was utterly impassive. A blank. Tarn could find no answers in his expression, and perhaps that was intentional. His optics were a prison on lockdown—nothing in, nothing out. He stared blankly at Tarn without seeming to truly see him.

Tarn had broken enough prisoners to know this look, and yet, there was the careful flexing of those talons into the palms. Tarn suspected Deathsaurus knew what he was doing. Pain, to keep his thoughts anchored in his body. A schooled empty expression to conceal a cunning and rebellious mind. 

_I would be surprised if I wasn’t on the List already._

Deathsaurus had been a troublemaker for a very long time.

Making other mechs obey had always been the whole of Tarn’s desires: Pharma, Skids, so many pretty pets. Just as he trained them to dance to his tune, so did he surrender himself to Megatron. It was the only relationship dynamic he knew: one to command, and one to obey.

It didn’t seem right to apply it to Deathsaurus, and that left Tarn at a loss.

They were allies. _Partners_. How did two mechs negotiate interface when they were something that might be approaching _equals_ and might even, someday, become _friends_? What future could there be between Tarn, whose life had been wholly the Cause, and Deathsaurus, who had pitted himself against any external authority for so long?

Tarn had no time to think. For the first time in a long time—at least without the assistance of nuke or engex or excessive transformation—he acted wholly on instinct. 

“Deathsaurus,” Tarn said. 

The face turned in his direction.

“Deathsaurus, look at me.”

A hollow gaze met his.

“This really isn’t conduct becoming a gentlemech,” Tarn said gently. He let his hand slide up Deathsaurus’s jaw to those feathery crests at the back of his neck. “Next time might I suggest a discreet personal communication.” His fingers sought out the base of the nearest spine, rubbing gently. “And a room with a proper berth.”

Deathsaurus’s optics flickered, both sets. Suddenly he looked alive again; there was something alert and proud and wild behind those red glass panels. A warbling trill broke out in his throat, and he pressed his chin insistently into Tarn’s neck, as though seeking something.

Tarn was taken aback to suddenly find himself chest-to-chest with a snuggling mechanism. He moved his hand to the next feather and was rewarded with a low, throaty purr. Deathsaurus’s wings rose up and rested their clawed hands on his tank tracks, their little digits digging into the gaps between the treads, and their length settling around Tarn’s body like a cloak.

Oh, they _definitely_ needed a proper berth. Tarn entertained a fantasy of reclining on his back with Deathsaurus cuddled up like this on his chest, all purring voxcoder and warm wings…that would be very nice indeed. He also felt a strange desire to pull a tarp over Deathsaurus’s wings, to stroke the commander’s spinal strut, to…to _tend_ to him. 

Tarn wasn’t going to get his fantasy today, though. He wanted it, yes, but not enough to risk lying down on this exceedingly dubious carpeting.

Somewhat awkwardly, a little tentatively, Tarn folded his other arm around Deathsaurus’s waist. Deathsaurus indicated his acceptance by purring loudly in Tarn’s audio.

Well. This was nice, if not exactly what he’d been prepared for.

“Have you learned your lesson from this?” Tarn inquired, just as his knees began to ache.

Deathsaurus drew back. His optics sparkled with a mischievous light that gave the justice officer in Tarn a sinking sensation of concern, but somehow also made Tarn’s spark glow with relief and, yes, pleasure. “ _Maybe_ ,” Deathsaurus purred. 

“Good enough,” Tarn murmured. “Dismissed.”

Deathsaurus drew back his wings and rose to his feet. Tarn got up too, quickly, so as not to be in the awkward position of kneeling before his subordinate. They looked at one another optic-to-optic in front of the desk. Deathsaurus nodded formally, turned, and headed for the door. 

“I’ve _definitely_ got some things to keep in mind for next time,” Deathsaurus said over his shoulder, just before disappearing into the hall.

Tarn blinked.

_Next time_.

Fortune preserve him. He hadn’t even realized what he’d said until Deathsaurus had thrown it back at him. Tarn had actually spoken that part of his secret wishes out loud.

Was there going to be a _next time_?

Did he _want_ there to be?


	12. Alone at the End of the Evening

Chapter Twelve: Alone At The End Of The Evening

Tarn dreamed of Deathsaurus.

Deathsaurus, tonight. Sometimes Sixshot, sometimes Black Shadow. During the DJD’s long pursuit of Overlord he’d dreamed often of their target. Lately, Tarn usually placed Megatron in the leading role. But tonight it was Deathsaurus playing the starring role in a script Tarn wrote millions of years ago.

Tarn faced his foe across a blasted battlefield under a star-lit sky. Thick, oily smoke rose from burning pyres to illuminate the darkness. Tarn knew that if he looked closely, the pyres would be the bodies of his DJD. And what do you know, the set had been modernized. He could see Nickel’s smouldering corpse from the corner of his eye.

Consciously, Tarn knew that the dream was merely his subconscious reflecting his own fears back at him. He’d lost members of his team before, some in ways he didn’t like to think about. The DJD pursued some very dangerous Decepticons. No amount of nucleon could ever be a promise of survival.

It was a reasonable thing to worry about. Tarn took all sensible precautions. After that he tried not to dwell on it.

But sometimes his mind did dwell on it, and when it did, he had the dream. Tarn, alone at the death of the universe, facing the last traitor across a battlefield. A killing ground littered with the burned-out bodies of everyone who’d ever been in his Justice Division. No amount of logic could change the fact that right now, Tarn felt very much as though he truly was squaring off against Deathsaurus across a desolate wasteland somewhere on the edge of the universe. Overhead, one by one, the stars were going out.

Dream or reality, if this was the end of all things, Tarn would conduct himself as befitted a true Decepticon. Tarn yelled a battle cry that contained the full force of his voice, and he charged across the field of battle. Deathsaurus sprang to meet him.

Halfway across the open ground, Tarn realized he had no weapons.

The distance between them halved again. Deathsaurus was also unarmed. The enemy commander hooked his fingers into claws and spread his wings, leaping to the attack.

Sometimes the best offense was…well, a good offense. Tarn trusted his frame to absorb Deathsaurus’s blow as he punched his enemy in the midsection. To Tarn’s horror, Deathsaurus seemed not to notice, and Tarn couldn’t be sure if Deathsaurus was really that tough or if he’d somehow missed. He couldn’t feel his hands. Overhead the remaining stars turned energon-pink and bled streamers of spilled fuel across the void.

 _Just a dream_. The outcome of this fight didn’t matter, because it wasn’t real.

Still, Tarn hated to lose.

Deathsaurus cuffed Tarn hard across the face, breaking the clasps on his mask. It went flying across the battlefield, skittering into one of the pyres. Tarn himself was uninjured, though the chill breeze bit into his unprotected face with an intensity that felt like burning.

Tarn reached out and grabbed Deathsaurus around the chest, spinning him around, hoping to slam him into the ground where he would lose the advantage of those wings. Deathsaurus’s talons sank into Tarn’s tank tracks. When Tarn flung Deathsaurus into the earth, the rogue commander held on tightly and dragged Tarn down with him.

Deathsaurus rolled. Tarn found himself pinned beneath his adversary. Deathsaurus straddled Tarn, grabbing Tarn’s wrists, yanking them over his head. Tarn refused to entertain any thoughts about how exciting it felt to be restrained at the pleasure of a mighty warlord even as an inappropriate bolt of excitement shot up his spinal strut. He prepared to use the only weapon he still had: his voice.

 _Why was he thinking sexual thoughts about his opponent_? That had _never_ happened to him before, at least not with anyone on the List. He admitted to having a few such thoughts during sparring sessions with Megatron, but _really_ , who wouldn’t…

No time for this foolishness now.

Deathsaurus bared his fangs.

Tarn opened his mouth.

And found his fatal song swallowed up by Deathsaurus’s kiss.

Tarn froze, shocked beyond action. Deathsaurus’s tongue stroked his. The rogue commander’s lips tasted sweet; his kiss was tender, even while his actions were rough. Tarn found himself responding. 

Reacting, not acting. A critical error. Tarn tried to seize the initiative and realized, too late, that his strike had in fact been to reach down and flick open Deathsaurus’s panels. Tarn gasped, breaking their kiss, and as Deathsaurus’s lips split into a hungry grin, Tarn realized he’d just sent his adversary entirely the wrong message.

And, to his own horror, he found his frame melting in surrender, eagerly anticipating the next few moments when his body would be claimed as Deathsaurus’s prize.

#

Tarn sat bolt upright in his berth, gasping as he sucked air into his intakes. His frame was radiating heat and…yes, much to his shame, he realized his panels were open. His gaze darted frantically around the room, from the tarps tangled around him to the locked door. The dim lighting revealed that he was alone. 

His hands rose up to his face. The cold, smooth, reassuring steel of his mask met his questing fingertips.

 _He was alone_.

So he hadn’t taken off his mask, and he hadn’t been _fragging a traitor_ , not that his sore and dripping valve wouldn’t have _liked_ that, and…

Tarn’s breath stilled.

He accessed his memory files and realized that while he was sleeping alone in his quarters like a properly dignified unit commander ought to be, he’d been far less concerned with dignity and propriety earlier that day when he’d….

Tarn felt his faceplates heating.

 _When he’d fragged Deathsaurus in an empty office_.

What in the Pit was _wrong_ with him? His nightmare about losing his team on a mission had just turned into a sex dream, his valve was making a disgusting mess of his berth, and all he could think about right now was about how good it had felt to slide down on Deathsaurus’s big spike and feel the rogue commander hammer his valve until Deathsaurus’s jack rammed into Tarn’s download port at the top of his valve and…

_And what? Infected you with…with some sort of treason virus?_

_Like he hasn’t already?_ Tarn thought sourly.

_Oh no. It’s Megatron who started the treason. He betrayed Deathsaurus, betrayed you, betrayed the Cause. You’re not infected with a virus._

_You’re just addicted to interfacing now._

Tarn’s hands curled into fists as his fuel tanks churned.

 _The same way you’re addicted to nuke, and transforming, and all of life’s little pleasures. Well, now your cat’s paw has given you a taste of a_ big _pleasure, and it won’t be long before you’re down on your knees begging him to use you however he desires._

_And tthe worst part of it is that when you’re under him, getting a good hard workout as Deathsaurus’s personal plaything, you’re going to realize that you love every minute of it._

Tarn shivered.

But…the _Cause_. He had the weight of the Decepticon Empire on his shoulders and the symbol of his burden on his face. He could not betray the Cause for the sake of his own desires.

…could he?

His cravings were strong. Tarn would just have to be _stronger_. 

If he couldn’t stop himself from interfacing with Deathsaurus, then from here on out he would just have to make sure that he, not Deathsaurus, was the master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read, commented, reblogged or recommended this fic. Your interest and support are greatly appreciated.
> 
> There will be more! Probably around the New Year. I need a title for the new story but it's going to be a similar length to this one.
> 
> All the chapter titles are taken from the song "Take It To The Limit" by the Eagles.


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